


Best That You Can Do (Is Fall In Love)

by el3anorrigby



Series: A Growing Addiction [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Caring Napoleon, Confused Illya, Drabble and a Half, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oblivious Napoleon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4978228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon's caring side brings to surface feelings Illya's not supposed to have for his partner. Or maybe he's fretting for nothing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best That You Can Do (Is Fall In Love)

Illya has suffered numerous injuries ever since he'd joined the KGB. He's been stabbed at, tortured, he's fractured his wrists, broken his ankles, has suffered concussions but surprisingly, as he's sitting on the toilet seat of his bathroom, staunching the bullet wound on his left shoulder, he realises he's actually never been shot before. He lifts the blood soaked cloth off his shoulder to check on his injury. It's only a flesh wound but it would definitely require stitches. 

He had earlier been busy rummaging through the medical kit when Napoleon had conveniently barged in to help him out. He'd lost out on their argument. 

"You know this is nothing. I can do this myself," he says to Napoleon who's now standing by the wash basin next to him. His partner stops wetting the towel in his hands and throws him an exasperated look.

"Damn, for once can you not be such a stubborn bastard? You're gonna need my help whether you like it or not."

The bullet wound has started to sting rather bad and Illya's too proud to admit Napoleon's right. When Napoleon turns towards him, Illya hesitates. All of a sudden, the bathroom feels a tad too small for the both of them.

"What are you doing?" Illya asks when Napoleon removes the bloodied cloth from Illya's hand, away from his wound. Napoleon's touch on his skin is warm, and the contact seems to burn him. His face feels hot. Illya wonders if Napoleon notices the flush on his cheeks. 

"Peril, I need to clean the wound first. You wouldn't want to risk an infection," Napoleon says, his voice more gentle than Illya's ever heard him before. It's a side of Napoleon he rarely sees. He slumps and eventually gives in to Napoleon's coaxing. He slides his half opened shirt off his body and slightly shivers. He's not entirely certain whether it's due to the cool air hitting his naked skin or it's Napoleon being a bit too close for comfort.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Illya grumbles as he tries to hide the nervous tremor running up and down his body. He feels like he can't breathe. He's not sure what's gotten into him. It's not like they haven't been in close quarters before. 

"Peril, I was in the army. Believe me I've seen worse. And I've handled a lot worse than this so I'd say you're in pretty good hands," Napoleon assures him. "Now let me do my magic, okay?"

Illya doesn't say a thing again and watches, holds his breath, as Napoleon kneels in front of him. He then holds, steadies Illya's arm in one hand before the other starts carefully wiping away the blood that's trickling down his arm. Then, at first initial contact between towel and broken skin, Illya makes a muffled pained noise. His other hand immediately flies on top of Napoleon's, as if to swat it away. Napoleon immediately stops, looks up at the Russian with concerned eyes. 

"Sorry, did I hurt you?" 

Illya doesn't trust himself to say anything so he simply shakes his head. His throat feels too dry. If he speaks, he's certain he'll sound like a croaking frog. He then let's go of Napoleon's hand he'd grasped in his pained state. 

"You clearly let your guard down today, didn't see the man coming at you. You were distracted," Napoleon says after a while, breaking the silence. He raises an eyebrow at Illya. "Was it Gaby?"

Illya stares at Napoleon in confusion. "What are you saying?" 

Napoleon grins. "I meant, did Miss Teller distract you so much you had to go get yourself shot?" 

"Nyet," he scowls in annoyance, winces again when Napoleon presses a bit too hard on the wound. 

"Sorry, Peril," Napoleon apologises. Illya could tell he's thinking of something clever to say but only shrugs in the end.

"Okay, another round of cleaning and then I'm gonna stitch you up." 

Napoleon stands and goes to prepare another wet towel. Illya on the other hand is still trying to understand what Napoleon had implied a few seconds earlier. Did Napoleon think he has feelings for Gaby? He couldn't be more wrong.

"There is nothing going on between me and Gaby," Illya suddenly blurts, "If that's what you're thinking, Cowboy." 

Napoleon turns off the faucet and works his hands on Illya again. He doesn't comment on Illya and Gaby after that, only continues to work in silence. Napoleon's hands on him are careful and gentle, as he threads the needle carefully and Illya imagines the tight feeling he's having in his chest at that moment must be due to his injury, or maybe it's the pain killer pills that's making him delirious. He hates showing his vulnerable side to Napoleon but he's hopeless to do anything at the moment and could only stare at the American kneeling before him. 

"My first gunshot wound had been on my shoulder as well. Happened during the war. But it's much worse than this. It felt like my arm had been ripped off," Napoleon says, then as he looks up at Illya, he catches him staring and like a criminal being caught in action, Illya at once tears his eyes away. 

Napoleon wonders what's gotten into his partner. He'd sensed Illya's eyes on him and now his suspicion is confirmed. However, he couldn't tell what's going on in Illya's mind at that moment. He decides he'll ask Illya later about it, once he's feeling slightly better. His hand stills on Illya's arm for a while and then he gives it a firm squeeze. 

"All done now," Napoleon says. Illya slowly glances at his shoulder and nods. "Pretty neat stitches," he says voicing his approval.

Napoleon chuckles and then raises his hands, gesture like. "Told you, I've got good hands." 

"Thank you," Illya mutters. Suddenly he wants those hands to do much more than just stitching his wounds up. 

"Let's just say you owe me one," Napoleon smiles, a rather charming one, his blue eyes bright and at that sight, Illya just wants to swoop in, pulls him in his arms and kiss him senseless. He gulps at his impure thoughts. A realisation suddenly hits him hard and he pales.

"Illya are you okay? You don't look took good. I think you should go lie down."

Napoleon is talking but Illya only hears buzzing in his head. It starts to get louder until he has to lean his head down in his hands to will it away. 

"Peril, come on. Let's get you to bed." 

Napoleon's arms are around his waist, helping him up before Illya could do anything to protest. He wants to push the American away, his closeness is not doing him any good, but instead he leans against his body and lets Napoleon guide him out off the bathroom. 

Later that night, as he lays alone staring at the bedroom ceiling, Illya frets. Napoleon Solo, the spy and master thief he's grown rather fond of, not that he'd ever let Napoleon know of that fact, has managed to sneak into the very recesses of his heart. Then much later, after tossing and turning for hours, Illya tells himself he's panicking over nothing. He tells himself when he sees Napoleon tomorrow, all the funny feeling he's having for his partner that night would disappear and they'll bicker like they always do and all will be normal again. Illya knows this. He'll just have to wait for sunrise to prove himself right. 

Feeling a little at ease, he finally succumbs to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This continues straight from the previous drabble. 
> 
> Note: Fic title is borrowed from the song 'Arthur's Theme'.


End file.
